


An Old Stuffed Bear

by textbookchoices



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Disabled Character, Dubious Consent, M/M, Slow Path to Forgiveness, So Many Kinds of Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: There’s a hole in one of the front paws, and the blue peacoat jacket it’s wearing is thin, fraying at the collar and buttonholes. Two of the buttons themselves seem to have disappeared in the forty-odd years it’s been since Tony last saw the thing, Jarvis packing it and a bunch of other toys delicately into a cardboard box after Howard had decided, in all his inarguable authority, that Tony wastoo old for toys.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 151





	An Old Stuffed Bear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/gifts).



> I'm late posting this, but I hope you like it anyway!

It starts with an old stuffed bear.

There’s a hole in one of the front paws, and the blue peacoat jacket it’s wearing is thin, fraying at the collar and buttonholes. Two of the buttons themselves seem to have disappeared in the forty-odd years it’s been since Tony last saw the thing, Jarvis packing it and a bunch of other toys delicately into a cardboard box after Howard had decided, in all his inarguable authority, that Tony was _too old for toys_.

The little black mask that used to be glued to the face is sitting in the bottom of the box on top of an old blanket that his mother, despite her inability to sew if her life depended on it, had done her very best to thread together for him as an infant. There was a lopsided and curled in cursive _Anthony_ there, spelled out in thick, blue thread at the corner of the unravelling fabric.

He rubs the blanket between his fingers, softly, distracted by memories of his mother, by that old scent of roses and vanilla that he can almost imagine he can still smell on the blanket itself, and that’s his mistake.

Morgan is two years old and already the sort of handful that requires constant supervision unless you want to accidentally step on pictures on the floor made out of coffee beans, pasta, and cheerios when going for your middle-of-the-night kitchen run. She’s Tony in miniature, and when she sees that old stuffed bear, she snatches it up with hearts in her eyes before Tony can say, “Morgan, no!”

She holds onto it like a lifeline. She drags it to the couch for her daily allowance of cartoons, insists _Bucky Bear_ gets to eat waffles for breakfast too, decides he can’t have grape juice, _he only likes apple, Daddy_ , and insists he needs to be front and center for every bedtime story. She begs and begs for someone to fix the wobbly eye that’s threatening to fall out until Happy, wrapped around her pinky finger even worse than Tony is, gives in and does it for her.

It takes Tony three weeks to accept that Bucky Bear, despite all the _shit_ that comes with it—memories and nightmares and so much guilt he can hardly breathe through it, _he killed his mom, his dad wasn’t drunk after all, he killed his mom, wasn’t his dad’s fault, he killed his mom, Howard was his **friend** , Bucky Barnes killed his **mom** he killed his mom he killed his mom he killed his mom_—is there to stay.

So yeah, it starts with an old stuffed bear.

The thing is, three and a half years ago, the world fell apart. He lost the battle. He lost Peter. He nearly died, but in the end he survived, even though he would have traded his life for the kid’s if he’d had that choice, but Tony always seems to survive, even when it isn’t fair, when he should have died, when he deserved—. Pepper broke their bond and seven months later gave birth to Morgan, an accident neither of them could regret, even when neither of them could stand to try and make it work again in a world that was grim and dark and broken and covered in the ash of Tony’s failures.

Three and a half years ago, half the world disappeared.

The fact that the toppled remains of AIM and HYDRA came together to try and take advantage of the situation shouldn’t have really surprised anyone.

The first time Tony was ever kidnapped as a child, he’d been four years old. He doesn’t remember it, but he’d had a nice long scar on his right palm for years to remind him of the danger of walking away from Jarvis while out shopping, the danger of accepting presents from strangers. That hadn’t stopped him from being kidnapped again when he was nine, or when he was twelve.

Morgan, following in her father’s footsteps far too closely for comfort, is nearly kidnapped when she’s three years old, playing in a goddamn children’s museum with security cameras everywhere. It’s only the quick response time from her Uncle Rhodey that stops Tony’s heart from cracking in two, and Tony holds her tightly to his chest, that stupid bear squeezed between them as Morgan clings to them both, big, wet sobs sliding down her cheeks as the distress in her scent reaches his nose.

He’s not sure she even knows why she’s crying, except that her daddy is, and Morgan always wants to do what Tony is doing, whether that’s pulling sparking wires out of old machines or snoring on the living room couch while _Paw Patrol_ plays its fourth episode in a row. But it’s alright. Rhodey was there. Rhodey punched that yellow-dress wearing fucker straight into a cellblock, and Morgan is fine.

That time.

Fast forward two years.

Tony builds a time machine.

The kid—Peter—comes back to life.

They defeat Thanos.

Tony loses an arm. It’s better than dying. He still stares at the ceiling, seeing nothing, and closes his eyes when Pepper comes by and kisses his forehead, brushing back his hair, her scent clean, calm, and just a little sad.

Morgan still has that stupid fucking bear. She climbs onto his hospital bed and lays it gently next to him, and says, sweet as can be, “You can borrow Bucky Bear if you want. Until you get better.”

He cries even though he shouldn’t, and when Pepper takes Morgan home, Bucky Bear stays next to him on the hospital bed.

When he wakes up, it’s to Pepper’s frantic phone call.

Morgan is missing.

Tony can’t get up. He tries, with every fiber of his being, he _tries_. His legs wobble underneath him, and the nurses and doctors panic when the machines start going off like a drumline out of sync, but they don’t even have to force him back into his room. He slips against the wall and hits the stump where his arm used to be. His vision goes black, his mind a wash of white nothingness and mind-bending agony, and he hits the ground.

Morgan is missing.

Morgan is missing, and he can’t move.

Morgan is missing, and he can’t get the _fuck up_.

Morgan is missing, and Steve doesn’t answer the phone he swore he’d answer if Tony ever called, if Tony ever needed him.

Bucky Barnes does, hesitant and on the sixth ring, like he wasn’t sure he should. His voice, when he says, “Hello?” is rough like he doesn’t use it very often.

That’s alright. Tony knows what Barnes is good at, and it isn’t his damn voice that Tony needs.

“You owe me,” he says, and it’s true, it’s fucking true, Tony doesn’t care about any of the rest of it, about the guilt or the pain or the stark reality of cryo chambers and electric shock therapy, and Barnes says, “I’ll find her,” and he sounds like he means it, and that’s—

It isn’t enough, but Tony’s body is shaking, his arm is missing and yet feels like it’s being ripped off, over and over and over again, his vision is spotted with black, and it isn’t so much that he falls asleep that he passes out when he drops the phone to the hospital floor.

He wakes up and there’s no word on Morgan or Barnes.

The kid and his aunt come by, and Tony hates that he drags Peter into the search, but it’s Morgan and besides, Peter wouldn’t stay out of it even if Tony could bring himself to tell him to. Rhodey calls him from Vancouver, and Pepper calls him from the tower, everyone coordinating, everyone looking, upturning every lead they can find.

Nobody knows where Barnes is, or what the hell he’s doing.

Steve is apparently ninety years old all over again and when he calls Tony, it’s with an apology that Tony hangs up on halfway through. He can’t bring himself to handle whatever the hell Steve was thinking, not right now, not so doped up on pain medication that he can’t think straight, his daughter missing and no doubt terrified, in pain and hurting, waiting for her father to rescue her even as he’s lying in a hospital bed, not doing a _damn_ thing but barking orders at F.R.I.D.A.Y., at the hospital staff, at Rhodey and Happy and Maria Hill.

Morgan shows up outside Stark tower three days later, barefoot and her feet caked in mud, her calf torn up and bleeding, her face streaked with dirt and tears and a bloody lip to match the purple blotch of a fist shaped bruise on her right cheek.

She’s five and four months old.

Tony wants to kill them, every one of those bastards who had **_hurt_** his daughter.

Rhodey, Pepper and Happy all come when they bring Morgan to the hospital, and Morgan races to Tony’s side as soon as the doctors have finished checking her over. (The injuries on the video are as bad as they get. There’s no concussion, no broken bones, no—nothing else. She’ll be okay. Maybe this won’t haunt her for the rest of her life.)

“Daddy,” she says, and her voice is hardly wobbling at all, and he’s choked up by how proud he is of her, in that moment, of how strong his baby girl is.

He runs a trembling hand through her hair, kisses her forehead, takes in her scent and the way it’s gone sweet with her joy, her _relief_ , at being back with him and her mother and all the others.

“Daddy,” she repeats, stretching the sounds like she thinks he isn’t listening.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Bucky Bear saved me! The real one!” She’s excited, her eyes bright as she drags the bear—the bear still sitting on his bed, despite everything, three days after she’d left it there—into her lap. She lifts one of the paws, making him stand up tall. “He didn’t have his blue coat though. It was brown and it smelled funny.”

“Yeah?” Tony asks, gruffly, and ignores Rhodey and Pepper’s concerned, wary looks from behind Morgan. “And where’s he now? Where’d he go?”

Morgan darts her eyes over to the door, like she thinks someone might be coming in. Drawing in a long breath, she rushes to say, in hardly more than a whisper and stumbling over her words in that way kids always do, “He told me they were going to give me back to my Daddy and I just had to listen and be good for a little while even though they’re mean and they’re scary and they smell bad and I asked him why he wasn’t coming _too_ and he said because he owed somebody and he had to stay.”

His baby girl is back, and she’s safe, a warm heavy weight against him. His stomach sinks, churning with sick, heavy guilt. The bear stares at him later that night, after Morgan left it behind, insisting, “Bucky Bear will keep you safe, Daddy.”

Well, shit.

It takes three months to stop blacking out with pain every time he accidentally touches his stump, when he isn’t dopey on pain medication. Rhodey, a Wakandan teenage genius and her terrifying bodyguard, Sam Wilson and Sharon Carter, in the meantime, start the hunt for Barnes. They blow up seven different Hydra-AIM bases in the span of three months, and only find a trace of Barnes in two of them.

Tony finally manages to build himself a suit he won’t pass out in as soon he powers up the forward thrusters. Later on, he’ll admit that he should have waited for the others before hitting up base number eight, but it was a small base. Hardly worth the effort of a team up. He’d honestly thought it was going to be unmanned, more of a safehouse than anything. He might have found some intel if anything. It seemed like a good first base to take the new suit out for and make sure he wasn’t going to pass out in the middle of a real mission if he ended up still being too compromised on the left side.

It figures he’d find an underground fucking complex, and despite his very generous efforts at killing every Hydra-AIM goon he comes across, he’s unfortunately overpowered far too quickly by the dozens of high-powered goons that start shooting things at him.

The suit is torn off him after a sophisticated EMP of sorts forces it to shut down around him, and he whites out with pain when they rip the left armpiece off—he may have jumped back into battle mode too quickly after all. Fuck, is it ever going to stop hurting so **damn** much?

The suit is set to self-destruct within five minutes, which, from the noise, kills a few scientists, so that’s something to be proud about even as he’s roughly dragged down a dark, cement hallway that looks like it came straight out of the standard _Handbook for Villains, Chapter 12: Spooky Lairs, Underground Complexes and Abandoned Warehouses_ , yippee!

On the bright side, F.R.I.D.A.Y. will have gotten out that distress call to Rhodey with Tony’s location, so rescue should be on the way.

On the not so bright side, a beekeeper—and why they decided to go with a bee theme after the end of the world Tony will never understand, villains are morons—grins viciously at him and says, “The soldier is almost ready for his treatment. Someone has unfortunately erased Hydra’s triggers from his head so we’ve had to start over entirely and he has… resisted… in a rather irritating way.”

“Oh yeah? What’d he do, kill a bunch of you fuckers? Good for him.”

“He tried to kill himself, actually,” the beekeeper says, waving a hand through the air. Tony’s heart jumps to his throat—fuck, fuck, **_fuck_** —before one of the men dragging him carelessly slams into the cement wall as they turn a corner. His vision goes spotty and black, and he comes to a moment later to the sound of the beekeeper still talking.

“… put a stop to that, naturally, but he is rather irritatingly resilient and has found a way around our restraints. You present an interesting solution.” With a smirk, the beekeeper looks directly at Tony and says, “He’s killed all of our volunteers, you see.”

Before Tony can do or say anything—ask what he means, make a quip, curse, punch the bastard in his mouth—they’re opening a large metal door and shoving him through it so hard he clips the doorframe on his left side and with a brand-new burst of sharp, sudden pain, he blacks out again.

He wakes up on the cold floor, his left arm—what’s left of it—in complete agony, the pain throbbing out viciously through his entire left side. He idly tries to remember if it’s detrimental to black out quite so often as he tries not to yell from the pain. Probably. Everybody’s always upset about it, anyway.

Then, the sticky sweet scent of an omega that’s clearly in the middle of a full-blown heat hits his nose, and he almost chokes on it. It’s strong, tinged with desperation and hopelessness, desire and despair, terror and resignation. It’s a mix of emotions, heady and hot and sticky sweet, and it makes him dizzy as he struggles to stand up with only the one arm to balance with.

The pain in his arm dulls, somewhat, the scent of an omega in heat drowning everything else out, overwhelming it all. He tries, for a moment, to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose, but the scent just gets on his tongue, and that’s—that’s worse.

“What are you doing here?”

Tony looks up, finding the source of the voice, of the scent, and isn’t surprised in the least to find himself looking at Bucky Barnes, undressed and sitting on the single, threadbare cot in the room. He’s leaning against the wall, head bent back to connect with the concrete lazily. He looks remarkably calm, considering the situation, aside from the way he’s covered in sweat and slick, the way his pupils are blown wide open, and the tone of his voice, as gruff as ever—and yet softer, somehow, than Tony remembers it ever being before—is laced with more accusation than curiosity.

It’s a fair question though. This is the man that killed his parents, killed his _mom_.

Except he’d also saved Morgan.

He traded himself in to these monsters, all over again, because Tony had called Steve, desperate for help, and Barnes had been the one to answer the phone. And he’d ended up here because of it. Naked and in heat in an empty, cold concrete cell. There’s still the fresh scent of blood in the air and Tony suddenly knows what those so-called _volunteers_ the beekeeper had been taking about must have been volunteering to _do_.

He grimaces and looks away from Barnes.

He hopes Barnes had made it hurt when he killed them.

“I suppose I’m the new volunteer,” he says, looking around for the camera that must be in the room—the cell—somewhere, “only without the volunteering part. Try to keep from killing me until we figure out how to get out of here, yeah?”

He moves to lift a hand up, wipe his forehead where he’s starting to sweat, except the arm he’d been trying to lift isn’t there. God, it feels like the fucking thing is throbbing all the way down to his non-existent fingertips anyway, and fuck if Barnes’ scent isn’t overwhelming enough to prove a distraction despite it.

It isn’t the first time it’s occurred to him that he’s somehow ended up missing an arm, same as Barnes.

He’s still not sure what to think about it though, not even now that he can see Barnes’ shiny, silver arm up close, all pure Wakandan vibranium because sure, why the fuck not. He spots the camera in a high corner and gives whoever’s on the other end of it the middle finger before he looks back at Barnes.

“I’m not going to—” Barnes starts to say, voice breaking with… something, before he abruptly cuts off with a choked groan, doubling over on himself, the cot beneath him groaning from the movement. His entire body is shaking, trembling, and Tony grits his teeth through the invasive wave of Barnes’ scent that’s flooding the room, coming off him like a damn _come hither_ in an uncontrolled, instinctive response to the new alpha—the new potential _mate_ , fucking _hell_ , that’s just Tony’s luck—in the room.

He waits a minute, breathing through it, letting his body adjust and Barnes shake his way through the sharp, aching pain of a heat cramp. Finally, when he deems it safe to open his mouth again, he asks, “How far along are you?”

If Barnes’ heat is already this strong, they could have a severe problem. Tony doesn’t even know if Barnes has an alpha he uses for heats, let alone where they are or how to find them in time, and time... might be limited. They might have to call in a professional when they get out of here, or just straight up take him to an emergency heat clinic.

If there’s even time for that.

If that would even be safe.

Barnes breathes through the shaking, slow and even, and says, “Shouldn’t be long now,” and it’s the way he says it—soft, empty, fucking resigned, that has Tony stumbling and sucking in a short, surprised breath.

“Shouldn’t be—are you fucking _kidding_ me? You’re trying to kill yourself? That’s what you’re doing?”

Incredibly, Barnes just shrugs, staring at the wall, body still shaking despite his apparent indifference to his condition. Sweat drips down the guy’s neck, creating a long, wet trail that’s sliding down his chest.

 _Shit_.

“What the hell, Barnes?”

“They stopped me when I tried to use a knife to do it.”

“And, what, you think they wouldn’t stop you from going supernova during your heat?”

Barnes grunts, and mutters, “They tried. Haven’t managed so far.”

Tony stares at him for a long moment. God, Barnes pisses him off. Angry, frustrated, Tony bites out, “You realize my kid worships the ground you walk on? It’s Bucky this, Bucky that, all goddamn day long. You don’t get to fucking kill yourself, Barnes.”

That, at the very least, gets Barnes to raise his head and look back at Tony. He has the barest look of a smile on his face, and it twists something in the scent that’s overwhelming the room. Makes it smell softer, less brittle.

Less likely to break at first touch.

Tony wants to kill any alpha that dared even try to get close to Barnes like this, and he doesn’t care if omegas get stronger during their heats, doesn’t care if Barnes is more than capable of protecting himself, even naked and locked in a concrete cell. If Tony hadn’t been shoved in here, if he hadn’t shown up today, what would they have done? Found a tranquilizer to put him into a sleep so deep that they could just—

“She was a good kid,” Barnes says. “Brave.”

Tony shakes himself out of it, taking a step forward with a wide swipe of his arm. “Yeah, and she’s been begging me to save you for three months, so dying isn’t going to be an option here, Barnes.”

“It’s die or let them control me,” Barnes says, after a long moment. “I can’t let that happen again. I won’t.” His voice breaks on the words, and Tony keeps staring at his skin, firm and pale, muscle everywhere. Scars reach out from the metal arm, but that’s hardly unattractive, and the silver gleams like the technological marvel that it is.

Tony has to acknowledge, at least to himself, that he’s hard in his jeans, has been since that first wave of Barnes’ scent hit his nose, sweet and desperate. He’s not the only one, of course—Barnes is naked, sitting in a puddle of his slick, soaking the thin threadbare cot, and his dick is erect against his stomach, already dripping at the tip. Barnes’ hands are curled into fists, body still trembling, shaking, so turned on he can’t sit still.

He yanks his eyes up.

“Hell no. You’re not dying, and I’m not leaving you here. We’ll get out.” It’s louder than he meant for it to be. He rubs at his face, realizing that he’s closer to Barnes than he was a moment ago. God, an omega nearing the end of their heat cycle, untouched for the whole fucking thing, that’s—

Omegas don’t survive heats on their own.

He wants to kill someone, and as marginally surprising as it is, he doesn’t want to kill _Barnes_.

Rhodey should already be on his way, with any luck. If not, it’ll hardly be longer than a few more hours.

If Barnes can make it that long.

“I’m not letting you die, Creasy. Not happening.”

Barnes groans, breathing heavily against the knee he’s drawn up to his chest. He doesn’t answer.

Tony has made his way close enough to reach out and touch by now. Slowly, he does just that, reaching out with his one arm and touching Barnes’ shoulder, slowly, softly, half-expecting Barnes to flinch and jerk backward or worse.

Instead, like a puppet with their strings abruptly cut loose, Barnes sways in closer, sinking against the touch with a soft, hitched moan. His eyelids flutter shut, but his mouth falls open, wide and panting, and the smell of slick and heat and sweet promise grows stronger, filling Tony’s nose until he’s practically scent blind with it.

Barnes is desperate for touch, even just... _this_.

Fuck Hydra. Just—fuck them all.

Well, it is what it is, and Tony’s surely done worse things in his life. It won’t be hard to add one more sin to the list.

He pulls back his hand, growling deeply—a promise in kin with Barnes’ scent, rather than a warning—when Barnes instinctively leans in further, trying to follow him. He fumbles to unbutton his jeans, awkwardly shoving them down enough to pull out his cock, the head slippery against his fingers where he fists it once, twice. Barnes is watching him, his eyes following his fist, heavy-lidded and dark.

Tony wishes he still had both arms; this would be awkward enough without the handicap. He keeps trying to move where there’s nothing to move, to grab with a hand that’s no longer there. And the thing is, he’s usually good at this, and it hardly matters who’s on the other end. If he has to fuck Barnes like this, the least he can do is make it good. He doesn’t want to hurt the guy any more than he’s already been beaten down. After everything that’s happened, Tony doesn’t have it in him to be angry at Barnes anymore. Not now, not for… for something that was out of both of their control, as much as it hurts to admit.

It might hurt more to keep being angry.

He climbs onto the cot next to Barnes, careful not to bang anything on the left side, even if the pain has dulled to manageable in a way that reminds him of morphine. It’ll be a bitch tomorrow, but those mating-insistent pheromones in the air are a blessing for the moment.

Barnes eases down when Tony pushes, not bothering to protest, to put up a fight, and his back arches up, his cock twitching and leaking heavily. The cot is soaked through with his slick, and when Tony touches him, gentle, slow fingers coming to stop against the heated sweat-slick skin of his abdomen, Barnes quivers, tenses and sucks in a breath all in that same moment before he shakily allows himself to exhale.

He’d killed everyone else who’d come in, who’d tried this.

Tony doesn’t waste time. Barnes is burning up. There’s every chance Rhodey will be there any minute—and every chance that it’ll be hours until Rhodey gets through the bastards and finds them.

He slips a hand down, to check; Barnes whimpers with that soft-rough voice when Tony slides one finger into his hole. It’s hot, wet and loose. He’s more than ready and shows it by pulling one knee up to hold against his chest, giving Tony enough room to move with just the one arm. Tony appreciates the help, and it isn’t as upsetting as it could have been, the metal in front of him a constant reminder that Barnes knows, at least well enough, what it’s like to be the guy missing an arm.

He clutches at Barnes’ hip with one strong grip, shuffling closer and pulling Barnes in at the same time. In position, he lets go of Barnes and takes his cock in hand instead, guiding the head to slide against the slick hole once, then twice, biting his lip at the feel of it. It’s hardly long at all before he gives in to Barnes’ broken, barely breathed, “Shit, please,” and pushes the head in, closing his eyes as the heat of Barnes surrounds him, heat to match the scent of him, the sound of his broken moans filling the room.

He starts to thrust, awkward at first, having to get used to the way the cot sways beneath them, and the way he only has one hand to grab hold of Barnes and hold him in place as he fucks forward. Barnes arches his back up higher, making the angle just that bit sweeter, and easier to hit that sweet spot that makes Barnes choke and bury his hands in the cot, metal groaning under the strength of his grip.

“You’re good,” Tony says, “you’re good, fuck,” and shame is filling his belly, shame and heat and arousal curling so deep it drowns out everything else. He grunts, shoving in, pulling out, shoving in again, , sweat dripping down his neck, his balls slapping against Barnes’ ass on every deep thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, please,” Barnes gasps. The sound of it echoes in the room, and he doesn’t care for it, doesn’t want to hear it again despite the way it makes the heat in his stomach curl. The arousal is thick under his nose; he feels drunk on it, drunk in that way that makes you float and forget every problem until they come back and hit you hard, kicking you when you can hardly stand up.

“More, you— _more_ , Stark,” Barnes begs, and it sounds like he says it without meaning to, his eyes closed, his mouth still open, torn between panting and not breathing at all.

Tony grips harder, his rhythm faltering beneath him as his knot begins to grow. Barnes’ walls seem to tighten around him, clinging with every smooth thrust, instinctively trying to trap him inside and end this miserable heat with a pregnancy. Tony presses forward, coming to a standstill, and groans as his knot catches. A slow rock, and Barnes makes a miserable sound, deep in his throat, arches his back one more time, and comes on Tony’s knot, cock spurting between them.

Tony loses the battle to hold back, and he thrusts forward sharply, getting as deep as he can while already locked inside, and comes through slow, smooth rocking motions, hardly able to move at all but it’s pure heat, spreading out in a dizzy, satisfying haze. Barnes keeps gasping through it, and the cot creaks again at how hard he’s gripping it. He’s breathing slow, even breaths, forcefully short.

Tony is pheromone-addled, wants to stay knotted to Barnes forever in that moment. He shifts until he can collapse down next to Barnes, Barnes shifting in turn to accommodate him by practically crawling on top of him, still tied onto Tony’s knot.

Unlike Barnes, Tony is breathing hard, just relishing in the feeling for the moment he has before it all crashes back down around his ankles.

“How are we getting out of here?” Barnes asks, after a long moment, and it feels like he’s speaking underwater. Tony resists the urge to smile—smile, _really_ —and says, “Don’t worry, I’m a genius. Certified. Always do my homework.”

Barnes frowns, and Tony snorts at the look on his face.

“Give it an hour,” Tony suggests.

His prediction ends up being nearly spot on.

The rescue goes off without much of a hitch; Rhodey shows up, tailed by Sam Wilson and Sharon Carter, and they blow open the underground compound like they’re planning a fireworks parade. Tony puts his clothes back on just in time for their cell door to get blown off its hinges, and Sam throws a pair of dark, slightly bloody pants at Barnes.

Tony just says, “Let’s not talk about the elephant in the room, seems like the best plan of action,” when Rhodey gives him a look. Rhodey rolls his eyes and grumbles, “There is no elephant. This a damn whale.”

Yeah, fair.

The trail of dead Hydra-AIM beekeepers is slightly distracting though, and Rhodey doesn’t ask. Sam just says, “I don’t want to know, seriously, don’t talk to me about your issues unless you’re about to start paying me,” and honestly, Tony wouldn’t mind paying Wilson to just sit there and listen to Tony talk shit about his friends for a while. Give some of those patent therapist nods of understanding and agreement. It’s something to think about.

The ride back to the compound is… awkward, to say the least.

The less said, the better, but at least nobody complains about the destination when Tony announces it. Even still mostly under construction after the battle with Thanos’ army, it’s big enough to accommodate them all while they figure out what the fuck to do with a heat-suckered Winter Soldier. Tony fucked him, and if the heat hasn’t broken yet—it’s simmered, but it’s distinctly unfinished—it’s more than likely that he’ll have to fuck the guy again.

Technically, they could drop him at an emergency heat clinic, but there’s three problems with that. One, he’s already partially claimed, which could make things significantly difficult as far as the heat hormones go. Two, he’s the _Winter Soldier_ , which means he’s dangerous as fuck and an emergency heat clinic might well refuse to take him in. And three, which is just that Tony… doesn’t actually want to.

Fuck it all, but he doesn’t want to just dump Barnes out at a heat clinic and let some stranger have at him. Professionally trained or not, someone with Barnes’ background doesn’t deserve that shit. Not halfway through a heat, without the agency to decide for himself what he wants, and sure, he didn’t exactly get to choose Tony from a line up, but what’s done is done and why should they make things worse?

He brings Barnes back to the compound, and when they all split up and head into the newly constructed guest rooms, Barnes silently follows Tony to his.

They don’t talk about it, but talking isn’t really the goal anyway.

Three days later, Happy brings Morgan over from Pepper’s place just in time for chicken fingers, waffles, and Tony’s fourteenth re-watch of _Lilo and Stitch_ since Morgan discovered the movie existed six months ago thanks to an exhausting day spent at Disneyland for Happy’s birthday.

Barnes, sitting next to Tony at the kitchen counter—awkwardly, silently, the two of them casually not speaking over coffee, chicken fingers, waffles, and more maple syrup than a grown man should ever put on his plate—startles first at Morgan’s sudden, loud entrance, and then noticeably stares at the bear she’s dragging behind her, holding onto it by a single paw. She doesn’t let go of it even as she runs and jumps onto Tony’s legs, so quickly he barely has time to wrap his arm around her in return before she’s pulling back and, without warning, throws herself at Barnes in turn.

Barnes seems to instinctively grab her in a hug, despite the way his shoulders tense up and his breathing goes short and quiet and slow. A heartbeat, two, and Barnes says, “Hey,” in response to Morgan’s excitable, “Bucky! You’re here!”

Morgan beams and keeps going, pacing herself at about the speed of sound itself, “Daddy brought you! He said he would! He promised! You’re here! I’m so happy! Do you want to meet Bucky Bear? Do you want to watch Lilo and Stitch with me and Daddy?”

Tony interrupts, because Barnes looks like he’s two seconds away from panicking.

“Morgan, grab your lunch and we’ll watch the movie in the living room.”

She gets down, thrusts Bucky Bear into Tony’s lap, and runs to grab her plate of chicken fingers and waffles. She struggles to pour the syrup, but that’s a battle Tony won’t win, and he doesn’t try. He’ll just clean it up later.

Barnes is staring at the bear.

Tony holds it up, stomach twisting uncomfortably, and says, “I told you. Worships the ground you walk on.”

He holds the bear out, and slowly, Barnes reaches across the kitchen counter to gently take hold of it.

They hardly look the same, these days—the costume isn’t the same, after all, and Barnes’ shaved off the stubble yesterday.

He still looks like he’s seen a ghost, staring at the damn thing.

“It was mine as a kid, you know,” Tony says. “Howard bought it for me when I was, I don’t know, two maybe.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying this. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop talking. “Had Jarvis put it in a box when I was—six? Seven? I don’t remember. Too old for toys and all that.”

Barnes glances up at him, his face a mask. God, Tony hates that. What he wouldn’t give to be able to just—give nothing away. Not even his sunglasses work that well.

He scratches at his chin.

“We were looking through some old boxes I had pulled out of storage. Morgan saw it. Hasn’t let go if it since.”

“I’m sorry,” Barnes says, finally. The thing is, he sounds like he means it. Like he knows how much pain Tony must have gone through, seeing that stupid fucking bear again, Morgan dragging it around with her like a lifeline.

“Don’t be,” Tony says, and then lets himself be dragged to the living room by an insistent five-year-old girl, Barnes coming right along with them, eyes wide like he has no idea what he’s in for.

They’ll figure it out, somehow. They’ll make this, whatever it is, whatever he and Barnes could be, whatever this is, as complicated and fucked up as it has to be, they’ll make it work. Tony is ready, somehow, to forgive him, and see what comes next.

And it all started with that old stuffed bear.


End file.
